


The Great War

by ikkiM



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Smut, Weird British Food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 10:06:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11377980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikkiM/pseuds/ikkiM
Summary: With their wedding drawing near, Brienne and Jaime are at war over breakfast.





	The Great War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SandwichesYumYum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandwichesYumYum/gifts).



> This fic is for the lovely [SandwichesYumYum](http://archiveofourown.org/tags/sandwichesyumyum) who suffers through all my questions and assumptions about weird British food. 
> 
> All the thanks to [Quinn](http://archiveofourown.org/tags/quizzicalquinnia) who keeps me sane and betas my drivel. (You're right; supine does sound wrong.)
> 
> Also, we are two weeks from the Season 7 Premiere and I am SO FULL OF HYPE!!

Brienne couldn’t believe it had come to this. After all that they had been through, starting out as enemies, earning one another’s respect, easing into friendship and now, after three years, being in love, that it might all come crashing down. They had barely spoken in the past week and each had gone to bed glaring at the other, falling asleep back-to-back and disentangling quickly when they woke entwined.

She wrapped one hand around her warm mug and used the other to stir the hot, beefy contents, tapping her spoon three times on the rim as she looked over at Jaime on the other side of the table. He shot her a look of pure venom as he set down his plate of toast and then took the small jar from its place in front of her.

_Don’t do it_ , her mind screamed as she sat in silence. But he did. He dipped his knife in the jar of Bovril and smeared it on the bread. She shuddered. He smirked at her as he lifted the toast to his mouth, taking a good long sniff before shoving half the slice inside. He chewed noisily.

She took a long drink of her savory Bovril, swishing it around her mouth. She swallowed with a loud gulp before licking her lips. He grimaced as he watched her.

How had it come to this? How could the man she loved, the man she thought she knew, how could it be that he thought Bovril was a _spread_?

It had all started during their trip to Winterfell. Ned and Catelyn had invited them to a rugby match, and in the cold, crisp air of the North, Brienne had mentioned that she’d love a cup of hot Bovril. Jaime had reared back in confusion, stating that Bovril was a _spread_ , not a beverage.

Brienne had been appalled, and not just a little disgusted. Ned had taken her side, and announced very loudly that mugs of Bovril were sold at the concession stand. Catelyn had rounded on him with a slap to his forearm before declaring that Bovril was to be eaten on warm, flaky pastry.

Ned had bellowed something about the bizarre foods of the South, and Catelyn had responded that a man who ate peanut butter and black pudding sandwiches with chili sauce could not be trusted to know anything about food.

Brienne had agreed with Ned, and while she wasn’t sure about the black pudding, she did enjoy a burger with peanut butter and jalapeno jelly. Jaime, to his apparent dismay, found himself siding with Catelyn. There was much shouting and crossing of arms.

During the ride back to King’s Landing, Jaime had texted every Lannister in existence, and there was an overabundance of Lannisters, for their opinions. They had all agreed it was a spread. Of course they would. Jaime was the heir to the Lannister fortune. None of them would dare disagree with him.

She’d called her father when it had been Jaime’s turn to drive. Selwyn had announced quite loudly and clearly through the speakerphone that Bovril was a beverage and a staple on every ship in the Westerosi navy. Jaime had mumbled some snide comment under his breath comparing the naval palate to the culinary nightmares of Pykish food. She had ended the call before her father could erupt.

Upon returning to King’s Landing, she’d called in Sansa and Margaery. Both had suggested that Jaime and Brienne were just having pre-wedding jitters. Then Sansa had said that a nice cup of warm Bovril was, of course, a special father/daughter treat, not to be shared with her mother. Margaery had looked at her in confusion, announcing that Bovril spread on sour dough toast points was a standard at every Tyrell family gathering.

It had devolved into a screaming match between the two.

Now Brienne found herself less than two weeks away from marrying a man who thought Bovril was a _spread_. Did she even know him at _all_?

Jaime slammed his stump on the table, drawing her attention, and then shoved the rest of the Bovril covered toast in his mouth. She took a large, noisy slurp of her now cooling drink, glaring at him over the rim of her cup. Jaime narrowed his eyes at her.

Then he said it, the one word that could end their relationship. “Spread.”

She answered back the only way she knew how, “Drink.”

“It is not a drink. It’s like jelly or marmite. You put it on bread or cracker,” the same as he’d argued a dozen times before.

“It’s like bullion or rue used for a beverage or soup base,” she repeated her defense.

He growled at her.

She rose to her full height.

And the fight began in earnest. He yelled that she might as well be an Andal, her taste was so primitive. She responded that his ego was so large there was no room in his head for actual taste buds. He slammed the jar down on the table. She waved her mug at him.

He came closer, and she stood her ground. She could not, would not, give in on this.

Jaime pressed his nose against hers and said it again. “Spread.”

“Drink,” she began to hiss in response, but then his mouth was on hers.

It had been so long since they’d touched. While she wanted to shove his stupid, handsome face in a vat of hot Bovril, she couldn’t deny that she’d missed him. She kissed him back ferociously, nipping at his lips and battling his tongue with hers, sharing the salty Bovril flavor.

His hand and stump were on her hips, lifting her onto the table as he pressed himself into her knees. He drew back and repeated, “Spread.”

“Drink,” she snarled as her legs parted instinctively.

His mouth was on her neck and she carded her fingers through his hair. “How,” she gasped she felt his cock pressing into her, “can you eat Bovril _on toast_?”

“It’s delicious,” he moaned before latching his mouth onto her collarbone.

She tried to clear her head and pushed against his chest. He pulled back and looked at her. “We can’t do this, Jaime,” she panted.

“Oh yes,” he said as he reached up to finger the collar of her shirt, “we can.” He ripped the material away from her body, the buttons popping off and tinkling as they hit the floor.

She looked down at her now gaping shirt and then back up at him. He was staring at her chest. She felt her nipples tighten.

“Did you just rip my top off?” she asked in indignation.

“I did,” he affirmed and reached up to cup her breast.

She moaned, and in retaliation worked her fingers between the buttons of his dress shirt, tearing it open to expose his golden chest and perfect abs. “Take that,” she responded.

He pushed her down on her back. “This is a custom made shirt, wench.”

She pulled him atop her, hoping this kitchen table would hold their combined weight. “All your clothes are custom made,” she snapped at him as she went for his belt buckle.

His fingers fumbled with the button and zipper of her pants.

With moves both practiced and frenzied, they soon found themselves sufficiently undressed, though his pants were pooled around his ankles and hers dangled off one foot.

Then he was inside her. It had been so long, too long. More than a week. She shouted his name as he thrust deeply and frantically, the pleasure of him almost too much to bear. Her name poured from his lips as she felt him swelling. She wrapped her arms and legs around him to hold him close as they came undone.

He lay atop her panting and sweaty, placing soft kisses on her jaw and neck. She stroked his back.

“I was thinking,” she murmured.

He propped his head up on his stump to look down at her. “About?”

“We could ban Bovril from the house,” she offered.

He kissed the tip of her nose, “We have both done without for three years.”

She rubbed her cheek along his jaw. “I actually only like it once every five years or so.”

“I’ve eaten more Bovril this week than I have in the past ten years,” he grinned. “It’s starting to make me a little nauseated.”

She snorted. “You’ve been eating Bovril just to prove a point?”

He shrugged and then grinned, “So the wedding is still on?”

She nodded and reached beside her on the table to find the small jar of Bovril. She looked at it, then with perfect aim from her position atop the table, tossed it in the waste bin.

 

**Author's Note:**

> My experience with [Bovril](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bovril) led me to believe it is a spread, while apparently, others believe it is a drink. I don't know what it is. It's a big mystery food. One I never plan to eat.
> 
> This fic was all written in fun and not intended to offend consumers of Bovril.
> 
> P.S. HYPE!


End file.
